Sink or Capture! (Commander Cochrane Smith series)

by Alan Evans

  Smith looked over his shoulder and saw Cossack sliding in on the other side of Altmark, heard the destroyer’s bow scrape along Altmark’s poop and the yells of the boarding-party. Kelso shifted in the seat alongside him and said excitedly, “I reckon they’re aboard her, sir!”

  So did Smith. He sent the launch sliding in towards Altmark, at first heading for the bow as that towered closer. He called, “Grapnel men get ready!” The grapnels had been hastily fashioned by Cassandra’s engineers earlier in the day. The four “grapnel men” had the job of hurling them up so their hooks lodged aboard Altmark, and the lines they trailed hung down her side. Then Smith and his party could climb them. He hadn’t liked the idea but had seen no other way of getting aboard.

  The men were standing ready to throw as the gap of water between boat and ship narrowed. But then Smith shouted, “Stand fast!” And as their faces turned towards him, “There looks to be a ladder aft!” There was, and it proved to be a Jacob’s ladder when they came to it, the boat scraping along between Altmark’s grey, rust-streaked side and the thick, fractured ice through which she had forced her way. And now Smith realised that she was at rest. Her desperate manoeuvrings had only resulted in her running aground stern first.

  He stopped the launch under the ladder and jumped for it. For a second he wondered why it was there, then saw the reason: there were men scrambling across the ice towards the shore and they had obviously come from Altmark. He started up the ladder, hearing Buckley shout behind him, “Look out up there, sir! Sounds like a hell of a fight going on!”

  There was shouting on the deck above Smith as he climbed and the drumming of running feet. The ear-splitting crackling of pistol and rifle fire was continuous and echoed back flatly from the walls of the fjord. He reached the head of the ladder, threw a leg over the bulwark and then he stood on Altmark’s deck. Now he could see that Cossack had withdrawn so as not to run aground like Altmark, but there was no doubt she had put her boarding-party over. The deck was alive with running figures and he remembered at last to draw the Colt pistol from its holster. Kelso appeared beside him and then Buckley’s head showed above the bulwark. Smith said, “Come on!”

  He was close to the after superstructure and led the way to it, finding that the hurrying figures were all Cossack’s men. He searched the superstructure but found no prisoners. In one cabin there was a suitcase holding a woman’s clothing, a neatly folded blouse and a skirt. Sarah’s? He stared at them and shook his head helplessly. He did not know. Another five men of his party joined him now and he ran at the head of them, along one of the catwalks crossing the after well deck and so to the bridge. Here, again, he found Cossack’s men in control, Altmark’s captain and his bridge staff held under armed guard. There were no prisoners in the bridge superstructure, either.

  Smith wondered uneasily if the captured seamen had been transferred to Brandenburg and somehow crammed into her already crowded hull? It was possible, for the short passage from Trondheim to Germany. But then from the vantage point of the bridge he saw some of Cossack’s boarders grouped in the forward well and working on the hatches there. He ran down the ladders and forward, reached them just as the clips were freed.

  The officer there was Turner, leader of Cossack’s boarding-party. As his men opened the hatch he bent over it to call down, “Any British there?”

  And a roar came up out of the darkness, a disjointed chorus but a common thread of a message running through it: “Yes! We’re all British down here!”

  Smith grinned at the men with him, saw them laughing, then remembered he had not found Sarah. She could be in the hold and if she was then Turner’s men would soon have her out of it. But if she wasn’t? Somebody aboard this ship would know if she was held prisoner and where. He started aft again, his men at his heels, and had just reached the ladder leading up to the bridge when Buckley said, “What’s that lot ashore, sir?”

  Smith looked across the ice lying between Altmark’s stern and the snow-capped rocks lining the bank of the fjord. He saw the figures slipping and sliding from the ice to start the climb up the white-draped hillside. And then he ran.

  Kurt Larsen was on Altmark’s bridge when Cossack swung around the bend in the fjord. A second later Altmark’s searchlight lit up the destroyer’s bridge — and he saw the men crowded on her fo’c’sle, knew at once they were a boarding-party. He slid down the ladders to the deck, bellowing for the six men he had brought from Brandenburg, dragging his pistol from its holster. He realised Altmark was under way and charging astern through the channel she had cut in the ice. He guessed her captain was going to try to ram Cossack and hoped he would succeed but doubted it; Kurt had known British destroyer captains.

  Altmark rushed down on the destroyer but she slid out of the way. The big tender drove on and crashed into the ice reaching out from the other side of the fjord. By then Kurt had gathered his men in the well deck forward of the bridge, thinking that looked to be where Cossack’s boarders would come across. Fritsch appeared, in a grey-green greatcoat that reached down to his ankles and carrying a Luger. The coat was unbuttoned and his hair stuck out from under his cap as if he had jammed it on hastily on waking from sleep. He demanded, “What the hell’s going on?”

  So he had been asleep. Kurt told him shortly, “That’s a British destroyer and she’s about to put an armed party aboard us.”

  Fritsch stared, at first incredulous but then outraged. He complained, “But this is piracy!”

  Kurt agreed, “That’s right.” But he remembered the prisoners battened down in Altmark’s hold. When she entered neutral waters she should have declared she was holding them and released them in Norway. He said, “What’s more to the point is: What can we do about it?”

  Fritsch rubbed his free hand across his twitching face, “You’ll throw them off, of course.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Kurt suspected that Altmark’s crew were not organised to deal with this kind of situation. His eyes were now fixed on the British destroyer. She was sliding in towards the prison-ship. Was her bow pointing directly at him or —

  Fritsch felt a surge of fear that dragged at his guts but he swallowed and told himself there was too much at stake for him now. The opportunity of a lifetime was in his grasp and he would not let it go. There had to be a way out. He looked for it, desperately, and finally leaned over the bulwark. Some distance still separated Altmark from the shore, a strait not of water but — He burst out, “By God! That ice is thick!”

  Kurt tore his eyes away from Cossack just long enough to glance down at the ice now enclosing Altmark’s stern, the huge slabs of it like concrete cracked and tip-tilted where the pressure from the ship driving slowly into it was ripping it apart. “It’s mid-winter; what do you expect here?” His gaze snapped back to the destroyer now nosing in towards the ship and he saw she was going to come alongside Altmark’s stern, nearer the shore.

  He yelled to his men to follow him and ran aft, became aware of Fritsch at his elbow and the SS man shouting, “Where is the key to the woman’s cabin?”

  Kurt glanced at him then away. He would not trust the girl to Fritsch. They were passing the after superstructure that held the cabins and he could see to his right the slim grey hull of the destroyer, its bow only feet away from Altmark’s poop that lifted up ahead of him from the after well deck. Then Fritsch seemed to stumble, cannoned into him and Kurt fell to the deck, Fritsch sprawling on top of him.

  At that instant Altmark grounded. Her progress checked and she shuddered as her keel grated on the bottom of the fjord, then she was still. Some of Kurt’s men staggered and fell, that grounding shaking them from their feet. But Fritsch shouted, “Keep going!” He gestured with one hand, urging Kurt’s men on towards the stern. “And you keep still!” He said that softly, for Kurt’s ears only, but there was no mistaking the menace in his voice. His other hand held the Luger and its muzzle was jammed into Kurt. Who wondered: Would Fritsch dare? And had no doubt of the answer. The men had run on, he a
nd Fritsch were alone and a lot of men could be shot before this night was over. One more or less would not be questioned.

  Fritsch stood up and jerked the pistol. “On your feet.” He shoved Kurt ahead of him at the point of the Luger. “You may think this is a matter of honour — “ the word came out as a sneer “ — but it is a matter of State. So lives, particularly yours and hers, are unimportant. I’m not going to be captured by the British and neither is she. Where is the key to her cabin?”

  Kurt led the way to his own cabin. They were barely inside the after superstructure when Altmark shuddered and heeled. They heard the destroyer grinding alongside, the yells from the deck outside as the boarding-party from Cossack fought its way aboard and Altmark’s men tried to stop them. Fritsch cast a quick glance over his shoulder and Kurt saw that, despite the cold, he was sweating. But the Luger still pressed hard into Kurt’s back. He had no alternative but to take the key from its hook in his cabin and open the door to that which held Sarah.

  She was dressed and on her feet. Wide-eyed, she started to ask, “What’s happening — “

  But Fritsch told her, “Shut up!” He snatched her overcoat from where it hung on a hook behind the door and threw it at her. “Put that on. We’re getting out of this.”

  She looked to Kurt but he said, “Do as he says.” Then she saw the pistol held to his back. Her hands shook a little as they pulled on the coat but she watched Fritsch steadily and he saw that defiance. She said, “I’ll bet we’re hiding in a river or a fjord — Norway? And I’ll bet that’s the Navy out there that’s putting the fear of God into you.”

  “And you think they’re going to save you.” Fritsch grabbed her with his free hand, threw her towards the door and warned, “Stay two paces in front. Try to run and I’ll shoot you through the leg. And there’s another reason you should do as you’re told.” He spelt it out for her as they made their way along the passage.

  Fritsch hesitated before stepping out onto the deck and held them both under the threat of the Luger as he peered cautiously out around the steel door. His eyes flicked rapidly back and forth between them and the deck, never leaving them for more than the blink of an eye. He gave them no chance to resist or escape. Looking past him Kurt saw that the destroyer had hauled off so as not to go aground. He also saw some of Altmark’s crew marched past under the guard of a British seaman armed with a rifle.

  Fritsch muttered, “The cowards have surrendered.”

  Kurt believed they had simply lacked organisation and leadership but he said nothing; Fritsch would not understand, did not care, was concerned only for his own skin and his prize prisoner. Kurt watched the girl, saw her face in the dim light that filtered in from the half-open door, and it was calm. Then she became aware that his eyes were on her and she smiled faintly. This in spite of the way Fritsch had dashed her hopes of escape with a few savage words.

  They waited there for some minutes, each one stretching out and racking the nerves of all of them. Fritsch sweated and his hand holding the pistol twitched but he was still determined, his glare told them that. Then at last the afterdeck outside seemed quiet, the shouting now coming from the bow where it stuck out into the fjord. Fritsch gestured with the pistol, “Out!”

  He herded them ahead of him across the deck towards the bulwark on the starboard side but just before they reached it a bullet droned overhead and he ducked into its steel shelter. “Get under cover!” He shouted that at Sarah but Kurt was already dragging at her arm to pull her down. That first shot was followed by others and now they saw the muzzle flashes up on the snow-covered hillside. Fritsch called shakily, “Some of them are already ashore!” He was talking of Altmark’s crew, armed with rifles and now firing at Cossack. That fire was now returned, the air above them alive with the din of crackling reports and buzz of shots that passed close overhead, the clangour and howl of ricochets.

  Fritsch grovelled still lower below the bulwark but soon the firing from the hillside ceased. He raised his head cautiously and looked around him. Opposite him on the port side there was a Jacob’s ladder hung over the bulwark. He said, “That’s how they went. And that’s our way.” But then he changed his mind and turned away from that ladder. Unknown to him it dropped down to Smith’s launch, with a man at the helm and two more at bow and stern to guard her, all of them armed. Instead Fritsch saw a similar ladder on this starboard side and realised he did not have to cross the open deck to reach it, had only to crawl along in the cover of the bulwark.

  “No. Better this way,” he corrected himself, and waved the pistol. The other two crept along to the head of the ladder and Fritsch pointed the Luger at Kurt Larsen. “You go down first. Wait for her and then you both wait for me. If you try to run you won’t get far.”

  They obeyed him. He crouched with his head just lifted high enough to watch Kurt as he descended the ladder. The hand holding the pistol rested on the bulwark so he was ready to use it on Kurt or an enemy inboard. Kurt stepped down onto the ice packed and tilted against Altmark’s hull and held the ladder steady for Sarah. Fritsch shoved her at it, “Go on! And remember!” He did not need to repeat his threat.

  Sarah rose to climb over the bulwark then hesitated as a voice called, “The Navy’s here!” But the voice was distant, from the bow. There was no help for her. The firing from the shore broke out again as she started down and momentarily she froze on the ladder, face pressed in against the cold steel of the ship’s side, heart thumping. Fritsch flinched but this time did not recoil and stayed in his place. He yelled, voice high and near to breaking, “Keep going!”

  But it was as much Kurt’s deep tones from the ice below her that set her moving again, as he said, “You haven’t far to go and you’ll be safer down here than hanging up there.” So she took a breath, unclamped one hand, moved it. From then it was easier and soon she stood on the ice by Kurt Larsen. He seized her by the arm, steadying her as her feet slithered and he muttered, “Keep out of the way.” He pushed her behind him.

  Fritsch was on the ladder and scrambling down it with the haste of near-panic as the firing went on. But he paused when ten feet from the foot of the ladder to show them that he still held the pistol ready in one hand. “Back off!” Kurt had hoped to jump Fritsch while he used both hands on the ladder but now he swore silently and retreated with Sarah until Fritsch said, “That’s far enough.” He still lived with his fear but his obsession drove him and he made no mistakes.

  He joined them, pointed their way to the shore and stayed a few feet behind them as they all slipped and slid over the cracked and sometimes up-ended ice, skirting the breaks where the water of the fjord glittered. Then they were on snow that crunched under their feet and was already trampled by the boots of those of Altmark’s men who had come ashore ahead of them. Sarah saw some of them crouching behind rocks higher up the slope with only their heads showing. The firing had ceased for the time. Fritsch gasped, “Wait!” He halted to catch his breath before starting up the hillside and they all three panted with the exertion, their breath steaming.

  Sarah gave silent thanks for the overcoat but wished she had some sort of hat to keep out the awful cold. That was a minor, insignificant worry, but she told herself bitterly she should concentrate on it because she could do nothing about the dread that possessed her now. It was snowing. She shook out her hair and saw the flakes fall from it. Fritsch said, “Move!” And they set out on the climb up the hillside.

  ***

  Smith saw that flourish of the blonde mane above the dark shadow of the overcoat against the snow, and ran as if he had shed twenty years. He left Buckley and Kelso behind. Only Jackman and two of the ratings were with him when he came to the Jacob’s ladder hanging right aft on the starboard quarter. He was first down it, then his feet flew from under him as he tried to run on the ice. He stumbled and fell again and again as he charged towards the shore and that may have saved him from some of the shots that came from the hillside, buzzing and ricocheting from the rocks on the shore or sla
mming into Altmark’s hull. He ignored them, gaze fixed on that small figure climbing the hill with two others.

  He shouted, “Sarah! Sarah!”

  She heard him and turned as he reached the shore. He heard her call down to him and recognised her voice though he could not believe the words, “I’m staying with them! Leave me! I want to stay with them!”

  He kept on after her, the snow being kicked up around him as the firing from the hill became heavier. He was climbing now but Sarah had turned from him and was still working higher up the hillside. Not believing, refusing to believe, he shouted once more, “Sarah!” Then he was falling face down in the snow and the darkness rushed in.

  He surfaced for a few seconds to see Kelso close by at the tiller of the motor boat. He realised he lay in the sternsheets and the boat was under way, bucking over the water at full speed. Buckley was bending over him, swearing and anguished, wiping at Smith’s face. He could taste the blood that had run into his mouth before Buckley started his cleaning. Jackman’s voice in the background said, “I couldn’t catch up with him, but I got him back as soon as I could.”

  Smith faded away then. He returned to brief consciousness some time later when the launch ground against Cassandra’s steel side. Jackman was saying, “That’s a hell of a head wound he’s got. Will he be all right?” And Buckley said, “Shut your bloody trap!”

  He was being hoisted aboard Cassandra on a stretcher, spinning slowly at the end of a line above the deck then lowered into a forest of arms reaching up to him from a spread of faces white in the darkness.

  Galloway’s voice came, anxious, “Will he be all right, Doc?”

  So the surgeon, Kilmartin, was there.

  And Kelso: “He was terrific! Bloody terrific!”

  Smith knew vaguely that he wanted to talk to them, but he could not. There was something about his daughter that troubled him but he could not remember what it was. Then he drifted away from them all.